


Frustration

by pringlesaremydivision



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision/pseuds/pringlesaremydivision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock stops pacing, finally, on the opposite side of the table from John. He leans against it, palms down, and grins again. “In short, John, you're stroppy because you need a good fuck.”</i>
</p><p>John has the patience of a saint, as long as his needs are being met. They aren't. Sherlock isn't helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frustration

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed - all mistakes are mine!
> 
> I've been pecking at this forever, and the BFI ridiculousness spurred me to finish it. Yes, this is dirty, and no, I'm not ashamed of it. So there.

Ordinarily, John Watson has the patience of a saint. He has to, living and working with Sherlock – if he didn't, the world's only consulting detective would have been found strangled by that ubiquitous blue scarf long ago, and John has a feeling no one would look too harshly on him for it.

He's been told that, actually, more than once; most recently, by Lestrade, eyes weary and shirt rumpled, illuminated by the cruiser's flashing lights as they stood in an alleyway by a crime scene, listening to that baritone berate Anderson about – about _something_ , there was always _something._ Lestrade, hoarse and exhausted, who'd muttered “don't know how you do it, mate; just working with him makes me fair homicidal. Can't imagine going home with it, too,” and then he'd tilted his head and _looked_ at John, liquid brown eyes turned sharp and keen, _looked_ and chuckled and walked away, shaking his head.

John had stared after him, watching as he laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and shepherded him away from Anderson, whose face had gone bright red and even more pinched than usual. John had stared, fingers folded into fists, and he had wondered what that _look_ had been about, and he had wondered why Lestrade was still touching Sherlock even though they were safely out of Anderson's range, and he had wondered why the back of his neck and the tips of his ears felt like they were burning.

But then Sherlock had ducked away, had bounded over to John's side and declared that since the exciting parts were over and the rest was duller than dull, that they were going to dinner, and was John in the mood for Japanese?

And John had felt all the tension in his muscles relax, felt himself going loose and liquid, and he'd nodded and all had been right with the world as the two of them, blogger and detective, made their way together from the crime scene.

So yes, in general, John is a patient man, a kind man, an affable man. He can deal with Sherlock's lack of social graces with merely a sigh and a grimace; his late-night concertos with earplugs instead of shouts. He doesn't even get upset about body parts in the fridge anymore, not really, as long as they're properly labeled and on the correct shelves. He doesn't mind, really, when Sherlock calls him an idiot; knows Sherlock still holds him in higher regard than ninety-nine percent of the other idiots in the world, and he lets it roll off his back.

John is patient, and John doesn't get snippy, but this is all conditional on his basic needs being met. He can put up with almost anything as long as he is fed, and rested, and well-fucked. Meals he can prepare himself; being a soldier has given him the ability to catch a bit of sleep wherever and whenever he can; but sex... sex is the tricky bit. Masturbation only does the trick for so long, and no matter how good it feels when he fists his cock in bed or in the shower, it's still nothing compared to sinking into the heat of another body.

John hasn't had a shag in what fees like a year but what he suspects is actually a few months, and right now, right at this very moment, John Watson has the patience not of a saint, but of – of – Christ, of Sherlock stuck in a room with Donovan on one of his bad days. That is to say, a _bit not good_.

Sherlock is not helping this.

John feels this is deliberate.

John is going to kill him.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock.” John stands in the doorway of the kitchen, his voice low and deadly calm. He is holding, gingerly, what appear to have at one point been shoes but which now are more or less a vaguely shoe-shaped blob of rubber, with laces on. When Sherlock, dark head bent over his microscope, fiddles with a dial on the side and doesn't look up, John raises his voice but doesn't lose the calm, even tone. “Sherlock.”

After a moment, a moment in which John mentally catalogs the different ways he's learned of disposing of a body, Sherlock looks up. “Yes, what?” he says, and then his eyes alight on the possible shoe remains and he winces “Ah.”

“Ah,” John repeats, stalking forward. “ _Ah_.” He waits, but Sherlock's expression shifts to one that is mulish rather than apologetic, and John has to clench his free hand into the fabric of his jumper to keep himself from punching Sherlock square in that ridiculous mouth of his.

“For god's sake, John, they were an old pair, and I needed to see at what temperature rubber-soled shoes would melt. A man's alibi was at stake, and it isn't as though I had any trainers I could use; all my shoes are leather.” He glares at John, as if _John_ is at fault here, and John is pretty sure his blood is actually, legitimately, about five degrees away from boiling.

“'All my shoes are leather,' oh, of course, you _posh fucking bastard_ ,” and John's calm tones are rapidly slipping away as his voice raises in volume, “and you couldn't even ask if I'd mind you taking my bloody fucking trainers and, what, s _ticking them in the sodding oven_ , no, because you don't work like that, do you? Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes, to whom none of the rules apply, who can just take whatever from whomever because _science_ , isn't that right?” John is aware Mrs. Hudson can probably hear him now, and he wouldn't be shocked if Mrs. Turner and her married ones were getting an earful as well. John doesn't care. John doesn't care, because John's shoes are ruined and even if Sherlock doesn't think they were worth anything, they _were_ , they were his running shoes, and anyway, who bloody cares what they were? John could have been planning never to wear them again and he'd still be furious because they _weren't fucking Sherlock's to take_.

John tells Sherlock this. His nails are digging into his palms in an attempt at keeping his temper from reaching truly dangerous levels. ( _I had bad days_ , he remembers telling Sherlock. Sherlock has no idea.) He's pretty sure he's drawn blood.

Sherlock stands, unfolding stupidly long, annoyingly graceful limbs; ridiculous too-small shirt pulling at expensive buttons stretched across his godforsaken chest, and John's going to kill him, he's going to _kill him_ , and that's before he glances up at Sherlock's idiotically gorgeous face and sees those preposterously plump lips quirked into what may actually be Sherlock's smuggest smirk ever.

John actually, honestly sees red. Everything has taken on a vaguely scarlet tone. This has the effect of making those lips in front of him, those infuriating smirking lips, even redder. It doesn't make John any less angry; in fact, it only makes it worse.

“John.” And then, for the love of Christ, there's his fucking voice! Normal people don't have voices like that. Who does he bloody think he is, Alan fucking Rickman? Stupid, _stupid_ voice, practically subsonic, all velvet and growls and fucking Jesus, after John punches the smirk off Sherlock's face he wants to punch him straight in the larynx so he can't talk for days. Weeks. _Ever again_. It'd serve him right.

“John,” and the bloody bastard's grinning wider, like the Cheshire fucking Cat, like he knows exactly what John's thinking and he's just _daring_ John to try. “This is not about your trainers.”

“YES IT BLOODY WELL IS!” John explodes, and when Sherlock _laughs_ he takes three deliberate steps forward, the hands with his ruined shoes raised, aimed towards Sherlock's head.

The insufferable arrogant prick doesn't flinch, doesn't even take a single step back, just continues to chuckle. “No, it isn't, not entirely. Not even mostly. Let's see,” he says, finally stepping back and beginning a circuit around the kitchen table, while John, now feeling furious _and_ stupid, lowers his hand and glares. “You and Cora broke up three months ago. Since then, you've been on three unsuccessful, unsatisfying first dates that went nowhere. Then there was Andrea, but you and she only went out twice; on your third date, what I understand is the traditional “get lucky” date, I needed you for a case and she was too insecure to deal with losing your attention even momentarily, so you never heard from her again. That brings us to now, and Caroline, whom you have been dating for some time if you count lunches – which she does – and coffee breaks, which you don't. Tonight is your fourth official date, and you obviously haven't had sex yet, because you've been steadily more annoyed – and annoying, I might add – since the relationship began.”

Sherlock stops pacing, finally, on the opposite side of the table from John. He leans against it, palms down, and grins again. “In short, John, you're stroppy because you need a good _fuck_.”

The fricative is barely out of Sherlock's mouth before John lobs the once-shoes directly at his head, stomps up the stairs, and slams the door to the sound of Sherlock's laughter.

 

* * *

 

John returns home an hour and a half after he left for his date, positively _thrumming_ with rage.

The babysitter. The fucking shite-arsed stupid cock-up babysitter just had to up and have a bloody family emergency, an hour into his and Caroline's date. Because _this is John Watson's life now_. Caroline was on her second glass of wine when she got the call, and her stocking-clad foot had just started caressing John's leg underneath his trousers, and John was sure, so sure, that before the night was over he was going to be buried balls-deep inside her, and oh god, it was gonna be so good. He had thought about fingering her while they ate appetizers, thought about licking and sucking at her folds while the entrees were being served, thought about slipping into her from behind and fucking her until she screamed while the plates were being cleared.

He had been about to offer a cheesy “dessert at mine?” when her mobile went off, and he nearly bit his tongue clear in half when her face fell and she glanced at him apologetically.

“John, I'm so sorry, _so sorry_ , but that was Liza, my babysitter; something's happened and she needs to go home, so...” and John could tell she was sorry, really and truly, and he wasn't angry at her, it wasn't her fault; wasn't anyone's fault, really, but that didn't erase the raging hard-on he was sporting.

So he'd kissed her on the cheek, promised he wasn't upset, that they'd do it again sometime; he'd settled the bill, adjusted his jacket, and called a taxi.

And now he's here.

He's here, and he's so turned on he's _aching_ and so bloody frustrated he isn't sure if coming or punching the wall would feel better. But he doesn't need a broken hand, so that one is out.

He pulls out his mobile, throws his jacket over the back of the chair, and flings himself down on the sofa. He can feel his blood pulsing in his ears, in his cock, in his fucking fingertips. He wants to strangle someone. He wants to _fuck_ , so goddamn badly. The two are completely intertwined, now – the hornier he feels, the angrier he gets, and the more violent his thoughts, the deeper his arousal. He feels like he's fifteen again, ready to rut against anything that'll stand still long enough, and he's just made up his mind to take a shower, wank, and go to bed when his mobile chimes.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _There's a bottle of slick between the couch cushions. Use it._

John stares. Blinks. Blinks again. No, the words are still there.

> _To: Sherlock_
> 
> _What._

He doesn't know if this is some kind of peace offering or another one of Sherlock's attempts to understand human emotions or, hell, if he's just having another go at _pissing John the hell off_.

If that's what it is, it's certainly working. He ignores the twitch of his still-straining cock against the fly of his trousers. It's just that anger/desire correlation at play, nothing more.

Sherlock's reply comes almost instantly.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _Your date ended abruptly; you're obviously frustrated. You're going to wank anyway, may as well enjoy it._

John lets out a low growl and responds.

> _To: Sherlock_
> 
> _How the fuck do you know? I could've already fucked her and left._

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _If I hadn't known already, which I did, that confirms it. Go ahead, John. Pull your cock out, slick yourself up, and have at it._

John stares, mouth agape, at the screen. Is he getting sex advice from _Sherlock_? Is this really what his life has come to?

> _To: Sherlock_
> 
> _Fuck off._

John begins palming himself through his trousers, obstinately, because he's going to get off but he's certainly not going to give Sherlock whatever perverse satisfaction he's looking for.

His phone chimes again, breaking his concentration.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _No, I don't think I will. You've been useless to me these past few weeks, preoccupied as you are. You gain more satisfaction through sexual encounters with others rather than masturbation, ergo I will assist you in getting off._

Somewhat hysterically, John's first thought is not to type out _not gay not gay not gay_ or _that's not what flatmates do_ or _who the fuck do you think you are_ , but rather, _you're not even here._

He doesn't even realize he's sent it until his phone beeps with a reply.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _No, but I will be. And in the meantime, you'll be more than willing to follow my instructions. Understood?_

John wants to feel angry, he really does, at Sherlock's assumption that he'll blindly do whatever Sherlock tells him. That he'll _want_ to do whatever Sherlock tells him. He already does that on cases; he'll be damned if the dynamic is going to carry over to any other aspect of their already fucked-up relationship. He wants to want to destroy Sherlock's lab equipment, to break his violin, to jerk himself in Sherlock's room and come all over the bedsheets just to make him furious.

Except.

Except when he reads that text, he can't help but let out a low moan and before he even knows what he's doing, he's plunged his hand between the couch cushions and wrapped his fingers around the small bottle he finds there. It's a brand he's never heard of, but the viscosity looks right and suddenly he can't get his trousers unzipped fast enough.

He's still throbbing, thrumming, electric with desire and anger and _need_ , but it's transmuting into something different, something more pleasurable. He drizzles a bit of lube in his hand, lets it sit a moment to warm up, and then pulls at his cock desperately, root to tip and back again, and his whole body shudders. _God_.

His phone beeps again. Biting his lip, he struggles to slide it open with his non-dominant hand. It takes a few tries.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _I want you to stroke yourself nice and slow, John. Get yourself right up to the edge. Then stop. Don't you dare come before I return. I'll let you know when you can resume your efforts._

Evidently, John thinks as he slows his pace, ghosting his fingers over his prick and nearly sobbing at the effort of not thrusting, there is no situation in which Sherlock can say _jump_ and John will not say _how high_.

Damn it _all_. What small rational part of John's brain remains is telling him to fuck listening to that arrogant sod, to pull himself of as quickly or as slowly as _he_ damn well pleases because he's a grown fucking man and he can get off however he wants. It's telling him he takes orders from no one, that no one owns him, that he's fully in charge of what he does with his own prick.

And yet his hand slows, grip loosening, thighs trembling, fingertips barely brushing over his erection. _How bloody high_ indeed.

Part of him still wants to strangle Sherlock for being such a git. But another part – an increasingly large part, centering on his groin and radiating ever-outwards until John's sure he can feel it in his toes – is overwhelmed with... gratefulness? Contentment? He doesn't even know, just knows if Sherlock were to burst in, coat swirling behind him, _right now_ – well, he probably wouldn't deck him. Not hard, anyway.

He captures a bead of precome leaking from his slit and groans as he rubs it over his glans, the fluid adding to the lube in a glorious slip-slide of flesh. _God_ , he can't remember ever being this hard. He wonders what that says about him, on all sorts of levels.

As if on cue, his mobile chimes.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _I bet you're leaking beautifully now. I have a few more things I need to attend to, so I want you to slick your fingers up again for me and press and rub against your hole. Just that, though. Don't penetrate. That's for me._

John fairly pants as he scrambles to obey, placing feet on the coffee table and canting his hips up for better access. Reaching between his legs, he hisses at the first light press against his pucker, shocked at how intensely he wants to push inside. He's had a girl or two do it to him in the past, during a blowjob, and it'd been nice but nothing special. But _this_. God. He doesn't know if it's because he knows he isn't allowed, or because it's Sherlock, or because he's so turned on he's honestly having a little trouble seeing, but the ache to be _filled_ takes his breath away and he lets out a whine he'd be embarrassed by if he weren't all alone in the flat.

John fumbles for his mobile with his right hand, the one that isn't all sticky and slick, and painstakingly pecks out a message.

> _To: Sherlock_
> 
> _I hste uou_

It's the best he can do with trembling fingers on his non-dominant hand, but he's certain Sherlock will be able to decipher what he means. Sure enough, his mobile chimes a moment later with a response.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _No you don't. You want to, but you don't. Do you know why? Because you crave submission. You're more aroused now than you've been with any of the vacuous women you've fucked lately and I haven't even touched you yet._
> 
> _It's what made you such an exceptional soldier, John, that need to follow orders, and it's what's going to make the two of us so very good together._

John wants to argue that this is a one-off thing, something that will never be spoken of again, but fuck it all if reading that doesn't send a palpable shiver down his spine. Because god, it's true, isn't it? Sherlock's right, just like Sherlock's always right. The need, the anticipation, the fact that it's Sherlock, all of those are definite factors, but god help him, what's turning him on more than anything is giving himself over completely to Sherlock's demands. To... submitting, Jesus.

From zero to a gay dom/sub relationship in an evening, John things wryly, but he can't even bring himself to care. He just wants _more_.

His skin feels electrified all over, hot and tingling, and Sherlock wouldn't know if he were to push one finger inside, just the tiniest bit, just to ease the empty ache inside?

John massages the ring of muscle, feels it tighten and flex and loosen again, and he wants to, Christ in heaven above he wants to, but he stops himself, barely, _barely_. Because Sherlock _would_ know, of course he would. And if John disobeyed him, and this ended before it even really began...

He sucks in a breath and lets it out, the sound ragged and harsh in the quiet of the room. Grabbing his mobile, ignoring the slick of sweat and lube he smears across it, he taps out a single word.

> _To: Sherlock_
> 
> _please_

The reply, when it comes, makes his cock throb, shiny precome spilling from the slit and down his wet shaft. Jesus fucking hell, he's going to explode.

> _From: Sherlock_
> 
> _All you had to do was ask. I'm on my way. Place your hands behind your back and spread yourself nice and wide for me, on your knees, arse in the air. What a pretty picture that'll be to come home to, you laid out and desperate, presenting yourself to me. Do that for me, won't you?_

John's flipping over onto his knees before he can even think twice, resting his shoulders on the sofa and tilting his head to the side so he can breathe. Pulling his hands behind him, he feels humiliated at how wanton, how needy, how sluttish he must look, and then feels a bit more humiliated at how much that turns him on. God, he's just learning all sorts of new things about himself this evening.

He can feel the sweat cooling on his newly exposed back and thighs. Shivering, he wonders how long he's going to have to wait before... before. Part of him can't believe he's spread out like this for a man, for _Sherlock_ , for _anyone_ , without so much as a kiss or a declaration of attraction or anything. Another part, the larger part, the part that's causing the shivers that aren't from cold, has no idea how this hasn't happened before. Fuck it all if the past year hasn't been one long foreplay session, all intensity and adrenaline, heightened emotions and a complete disregard of personal space.

They've been leading up to this, John realizes, since he shot that cabbie. He wonders if he's known all along that this is where they were going to end up, where they _should_ end up. He wonders if Sherlock's known.

The creak of the door downstairs stops his thoughts in their tracks, and he can't help the gasp that escapes his lips. He's not ready for this. He's dying for this. His heart's racing double-time, he feels dizzier with each footstep he hears, he can't he can't he can't oh god he needs, he _needs -_

“John.” Sherlock breathes out his name reverently. The noise that comes out of John's mouth is inhuman, ravaged and rough.

The slam and lock of the door, three more footsteps, and then John can feel Sherlock standing behind him, electrifying the air around him like a forcefield, raising goosebumps on John's touch-starved flesh; can breathe in his scent – wool and tobacco, spices and night air, a more potent aphrodisiac than anything John's ever come across; can hear Sherlock's breathing, his attempts to keep his breaths measured and even and the way he's failing spectacularly, air being sucked in hard and forced out raggedly.

Sherlock may be able to fake the entire gamut of human emotion when necessary, but John's learned a thing or two about him in the time they've been together, and the sheer tension radiating off of Sherlock is enough to tip him off that this, whatever this is – this is not a whim. This isn't a game of Sherlock's, then, some experiment to quiet John down to make him more pliable. John feels a burst of relief in his chest he isn't expecting, didn't even know he was looking for, didn't realize he needed. The knowledge that this is something Sherlock wants too, that it isn't just a means to an end – John's a half-second away from voicing his thoughts when he feels a leather-clad hand rest lightly, low on his back, and every single thing in his mind that isn't _yes_ and _please_ and _Sherlock_ disappears completely.

“If you tell me you don't want this,” Sherlock begins, fingers stroking lightly against John's oversensitive skin, causing John to arch his back into the touch, “I won't believe you for a second. But I will walk away.” He pauses for a moment, in speech and in movement. When he speaks again, his voice is low and quiet, all traces of arrogance erased. “I will never force you into anything you don't truly want.”

John shudders and feels, for the second time in barely five minutes, an overwhelming rush of relief, so strong it's nearly palpable. It isn't the fact that Sherlock wouldn't force him, because he _knows_ that, just as he knows that there's precious little he wouldn't do for Sherlock; no, it's that Sherlock understands enough, _cares_ enough, to tell him so.

“Yes,” John breathes out, and that's enough.

He hears a flurry of activity behind him, the susurrus of wool against silk, the drop of the Belstaff to the floor – John bites back a gasp at this blatant show of eagerness – and at some point evidently Sherlock's removed his gloves, too, because the next touch John feels is bare skin against his, cool fingers pressed to the back of his neck, and then hot breath against his ear.

“You look filthy, John Watson,” Sherlock whispers against his ear before running the tip of his tongue around the shell, and John can't hold back the gasp this time because fuck it all if Sherlock hasn't found the spot that undoes him on the first try. There's a nibble, gentle but with promise, on his earlobe, and then Sherlock continues. “What would Caroline think, if she saw you like this? If she saw you, spread out, slicked up and trembling _for me_? Do you think she'd be aroused, John, or would she be jealous? Or both?”

There is a hand trailing down John's spine, light but sure, and then a firm grip on his arse, and John can't help bucking back against the touch. Sherlock seems to want a response, so John licks his parched lips, but he can't think of anything to say, can't even really remember what Sherlock asked. “I – god, Sherlock, I don't – OH!”

Because the other hand, the one that isn't grabbing hold of him, is stroking against his hole, slender fingertips pressing against the pucker, circling and sliding over and over and god, god, John needs more.

“I don't care how she'd feel,” Sherlock rumbles. One hand moves up to John's shoulder, gives a tug, and then suddenly he's kneeling upright on the couch, Sherlock in front of him, and John's pretty sure all the oxygen in the room has escaped completely because he's so dizzy he's about to pass out.

John has seen Sherlock look many different ways, depending on what needs to be done. He's seen him look innocent, eyes wide and smile beguiling in order to get information from some elderly grannie or an aging shopkeeper. He's seen him look cold and calculating, blank face and hard eyes striking fear into whomever is the target of his wrath. He's even seen him, after successful cases, when they're back at Baker Street and the rush hasn't worn off yet, look nearly unguarded and genuinely happy, eyes crinkling and mouth curved in a smile that John fancies is for him alone.

But he has never, _never_ seen Sherlock like this. He looks dangerous, _predatory_ – like a wildcat, a jaguar on the hunt. His pupils are blown black, just a thin line of green circling them, and that mouth, that _mouth_ , is lush and red and shiny with spit. He bares his teeth, completing the picture, and continues, never taking his eyes away from John's own. “I don't care how she would feel, because you are _mine_ , do you understand? It is intolerable that anyone else gets to touch you like this, see you like this. None of them deserve it; none of them understand you.” And then suddenly their faces are close, so close, and John can smell the peppermint on Sherlock's breath, and against John's lips Sherlock murmurs, “but I do. I know what you need, what you want, even if you won't let yourself think about it.”

There is a rush of blood in John's ears, fierce and deafening, and then his hands are on Sherlock, unbuttoning buttons desperately, gracelessly, before grasping the two sides of his shirt and simply ripping them apart. Sherlock growls and presses their lips together bruisingly hard and oh, oh, oh _yes_.

There is a brief fight for dominance, lips and teeth warring together, but John backs down not because Sherlock is stronger, but because he _wants_ to. He wants this madman, _his_ madman, with his flushed chest and wild hair, to overtake him, overwhelm him, _claim_ him in this as he has claimed him already in everything else. He lets out a moan and goes pliant, boneless in Sherlock's arms, and gets a rumbling chuckle for his troubles.

“I knew it,” Sherlock whispers, mouth traveling down to the juncture between John's neck and shoulder, scraping teeth against the skin first gently, gently, then harder, a heady mix of pleasure and pain that has John shivering in moments. “Christ, how much time we've lost.”

For a brief second, John fancies melancholy in Sherlock's voice, and a wave of emotion swells over him, threatens to overtake the lust throbbing through every inch of him. “Sherlock,” he breathes, and then, burying his face in the curls beneath him, “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” His heart feels simultaneously like it's being clenched and like it's filling fit to burst, and he's sure that Sherlock can read it, can understand what his body is trying to say, because Sherlock is Sherlock and John is John, and that's how things are.

A brief press of lips, a murmured “yes, John,” against the fragile skin of his neck, and then the predator returns. Sherlock eyes John with a fierceness that makes him feel stripped, past naked, flayed to the very bone, to his tendons and all the secret inner workings of his body. The gaze rakes John over from head to knees before settling squarely on John's aching cock, and the sheer _want_ in Sherlock's eyes makes John flush even harder.

“Turn around,” Sherlock commands, settling himself languidly against the arm of the sofa, one leg cocked up against the back and the other trailing down to the floor. The open vee of his legs is breathtakingly inviting and John doesn't wait to be told twice before he settles in between them, sweaty back to Sherlock's fevered front. The press of skin to skin sets John to trembling again, tremors running through every inch of him. He feels Sherlock's arms come around his chest, tight, enveloping, and there is the faintest shaking in those fingers too, and Sherlock's heartbeat tripping rapidly against his back, and John can't take it any more, he can't, he just can't -

“Please,” he chokes out. “Please, Sherlock, I need – please touch me, touch my cock, finger me, fill me, fuck me, I don't care, need you, need -” He's distantly aware that he's babbling, begging, making a fool out of himself but if Sherlock doesn't touch him soon he's going to explode, actually, honestly explode, and that isn't going to bode well with Mrs. Hudson, not army doctor all over the walls, and then, oh god, Sherlock's hands are skimming down his abdomen and he very nearly sobs with relief.

“I wanted to take my time with you, John,” Sherlock says against his jaw, voice harsh and ragged. “But seeing you like this – so desperate, so _needy_ , so very much _mine_ for the taking -” and there is a thrust, wool-covered erection pressing against John's back, hard and so unmistakably _male;_ god, he's done this to Sherlock, and what a heady feeling _that_ is, and then, “that will have to be another time because I -” _thrust_ “cannot -” _thrust_ “wait -”

John lets out a wail when Sherlock's hand finally, _finally_ closes around his aching prick, long fingers curling around his length, and for a moment he wavers on the edge of blacking out, the sensation is so fucking strong. Sherlock waits, gripping John tight, unmoving, until John's frantic breathing slows the slightest bit.

“Spread your legs for me,” Sherlock murmurs, rubbing at the thin skin of John's inner thigh. John slides one leg down to the ground, a mimicry of Sherlock's pose, and feels terrifyingly, exhilaratingly _open_ in every sense of the word. He hisses and drops his head back against Sherlock's shoulder as those fingers make their way into the crease between his thigh and his groin, skim their way over his drawn-tight balls, and come to rest against the clenching pucker of his arsehole.

“Yes, god, shit – fuck – Sherlock – in me, need you in me,” John groans, his hips stuttering back and forth, unsure whether to try to thrust into the fist around his cock or press against the fingers teasing against his entrance, craving both, head spinning, heart pounding, _need need need_ thrumming through his veins, his blood, his skin.

“Next time I'll lick you open,” Sherlock promises, and then there is a _press_ , one finger opening John up, slick slide of the lube from before making it an easy entrance, and John's seeing stars. “I'll dip my tongue into you, taste you in the most intimate way possible, until you're writhing above me and begging me to fuck you.”

Sherlock presses his cock hard against John's back once, twice, three more times, panting hard into John's ear.

“But now, John, my John -” and now, finally, fuck, god, _finally_ Sherlock is moving the hand on his cock, “I want you to come, I want to see you come, come for me, my John -” and he is pressing in and stroking up and oh god, oh yes, that's it, and John's coming, ribbons of white shooting up from the purple head, and he's pretty sure he's screaming but he can't hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, and he's never come this hard before and he's dying, he's sure of it, this is – fuck – god -

Faintly he feels Sherlock thrust once more then still against him. A brush of lips against his neck is the last thing he remembers before he really does lose consciousness.

 

* * *

 

John is awoken abruptly the next morning by the all-too-familiar sound of something exploding in the kitchen, and nearly falls out of bed – a bed which he realizes, belatedly, is very much not his own. This bed is larger, with sumptuous white sheets and a fluffy purple silk duvet tangling themselves around him, and – oh, _oh_.

He waits for the terror to set in, the sexual identity crisis, the regret, and feels – nothing. Well, not precisely nothing. He needs to piss, and he's more than a bit hungry. But there is nothing that he would expect to feel the morning after the world's most intense handjob from his – from his Sherlock. Nothing except a feeling that feels suspiciously like joy, bubbling up from deep inside until it spills over his lips, until he's stood stark naked in the middle of Sherlock's bedroom, laughing to himself.

There is the sound of another explosion from the kitchen. John tugs on one of Sherlock's dressing gowns and padding out to assess the damage. When he sees Sherlock, dripping head-to-toe in some sort of pinkish goo, he does not yell. He does not throw things.

He shakes his head, and he laughs even harder, and he picks his way carefully across the floor to press a kiss against the one part of his consulting detective that isn't covered in slime, which turns out to be the palm of his left hand. The smile that he gets in return is breathtaking in its genuineness, Sherlock's very own smile only for John.

John smiles back and walks to the loo, still chuckling lightly. Because John Watson has the patience of a saint.


End file.
